Degrees
by Allycat33
Summary: You see, there are different levels of their relationship, levels that different people see in different situations. Different degrees that they have, just as there are different degrees of schooling. And, just as with schooling, the higher the degree being considered, the more complicated it becomes. -Hints of Johnlock.


Just a short one-shot based on the prompt "degrees." An exploration into the many levels of John and Sherlock's relationship.

Don't own Sherlock, or any of the characters.

* * *

Sherlock and John's relationship is a topic much discussed between those who know them, especially between those who had known Sherlock for a number of years. None of them, not even Mycroft, have ever known Sherlock to grow attached to _anyone_, and it had been a huge shock when he began insisting that John come on cases with him. Speculation about just what exactly John meant to Sherlock sparked among the police officers he'd worked with, and has continued to prove to be a topic of great interest to all parties.

But no one quite knows what, exactly, to make of them. You see, there are different levels of their relationship, levels that different people see in different situations. Different degrees that they have, just as there are different degrees of schooling. And, just as with schooling, the higher the degree being considered, the more complicated it becomes.

* * *

**Degree 1: Flatmates**

_(This is perhaps the only degree that everyone in John and Sherlock's lives agrees upon. Whatever else they are, they share the flat, the rent, the groceries, the tea, and the living space.)_

"We're out of milk."

John looked up from his laptop and raised his eyebrows. They'd been sitting together in silence for the better part of two hours, John busying himself with reading and writing his blog, Sherlock lying on the couch, his eyes closed but his hands waving about in the air, as if he were pantomiming something.

"So . . . go out and get some," John suggested.

Sherlock's hands dropped to his stomach and he opened his eyes lazily, letting his head roll to the side to glare at John. "I can't. I'm busy."

John gestured to the laptop sitting on the desk in front of him. "And I'm not?"

"Please," Sherlock sneered. "You've written 20 words, at maximum, in the last _hour_. A university student could have written a well thought out seven page essay in that time." He closed his eyes and waved his hand out in the direction of the door. "Off you go."

John clenched his fists together, held them tightly in that position for 10 seconds, and then released them. He'd recently found that this was one of the few nonviolent ways that allowed him to feel angry with his flatmate without it ending with said flatmate being punched in the face.

He sighed, shutting his laptop and standing. "Fine," he said. "But next time, you're going."

Sherlock merely waved insistently at the door again.

* * *

**Degree 2: Colleagues**

_(Though still a fairly basic degree, and one that most readily agree upon, this is where we lose Sally Donavon. Despite the simplicity of such a relationship, she refuses to believe that Sherlock is capable of forming any relationship – with anyone – beyond the basic flatmate degree, which she is still reluctant to concede to. Contrary to her opinion, Sherlock and John have been working on cases together for the better part of two years, and Sherlock's work has never been more brilliant and efficient.)_

"Mr. Holmes," Phil Daggart greeted professionally, shaking Sherlock's hand. His eyes flicked briefly to John. "And. . . ."

"John –"

"_Dr. _John Watson," Sherlock interrupted. "A colleague of mine."

Daggart's lips thinned. "I _did_ hope that I would get you on your own, Mr. Holmes. The matter at hand is a bit delicate. . . ."

"I assure you, Dr. Watson is no stranger to discretion." Sherlock smiled reassuringly, in that fake way that only he – and extraordinarily talented actors – could manage. "He's assisted me on multiple cases and I find his participation invaluable. That being said, if he's not here, neither am I."

"Well, then," Daggart said, clapping his hands together, but looking a bit taken aback at Sherlock's voracious insistence. "Let's begin." He ushered them into his office, casting a lingering wary glance at John.

Several hours later, when Sherlock and John had packed themselves into a taxi upon leaving Daggart's office, John raised his eyebrows questionably and asked, "So, what was all that about, in there?"

"What do you mean?"

"All that about my participation being 'invaluable'," John quoted, a small smirk on his face. "And 'if he's not here, neither am I'. You'd really have left if he kicked me out?"

"I knew he wouldn't."

"Sherlock. . . ."

Sherlock glanced away, a slight pink tinge in his cheeks. When he looked back at John, his face was composed. "I thought I made myself clear: I'd be lost without my blogger."

* * *

**Degree 3: Friends**

_(Here is where things begin to become more complex. Sherlock and John consider themselves to be friends, but not everyone does. Some believe that Sherlock takes advantage of John too much for their relationship to really be classified as "friendship." Others believe they are something more than friends, but we will get into that later__.)_

"_Freak_," Sally spat as a greeting to Sherlock. As usual, it seemed to roll right off him. "Lestrade's waiting for you in his office."

John clenched his hands into fists as he passed her, following Sherlock around the other officers' desks. Lestrade appeared in the doorway to his office and waved John away. "No, sorry, just need to talk to Sherlock alone for a bit."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John quickly said, "No, it's fine, I'll just wait out here."

He found a chair out of the way of any of the bustling officers and settled himself into it. He sat like that for a few moments, his eyes on the window to Lestrade's office, trying to make out what was going on inside, but the shades had been lowered. All he could see were the vague outlines of Sherlock and Lestrade. He felt someone brush up against his arm as they sat next to him, and turned to see Sally sitting there, her arms crossed.

"I can't believe you're still living with that freak."

John cringed at the term, but stayed silent. Sally continued, "I warned you to stay away from him. I mean, you know you're just a tool to him, right? Psychopaths don't make _friends_."

"He's not a psychopath," John said through gritted teeth.

"Sociopath, then," Sally allowed, waving her hand dismissively. "Not much difference between the two, if you ask me." She crossed her legs, sniffing superiorally.

"I didn't," John snapped before he could stop himself. Sally's mouth dropped. "You know, maybe you could just _shut up_ about him for once? I'm so _sick_ of your stupid bias against him. He solves crimes that you can't even begin to make heads or tails of, and then you call him a freak for it because his brain works differently than ours. And, no, he's not a sociopath, either. He obviously gave the label to himself, don't ask me why. Maybe because it's easier for people to understand. Maybe because it's easier for _him _to understand. But he has emotions. He feels guilt. He cares. Maybe not about people he doesn't know, but if he gets an attachment to you, by God, will he show you that he cares."

Sally snorted, obviously unmoved by this speech. "What the blooming hell are you talking about? You think he _cares_ about you? All you are to him is someone to show off to. He doesn't give a flying fuck about you."

"Really?" John asked, bristling. "Then why does he try to make tea for me when I get done with work late? Why did he go mad when he realized Moriarty had kidnapped me and strapped me up with Semtex? Why does he try to calm me down when I'm having a nightmare by playing his violin?" Sally didn't seem to have any response to this. "Don't you try to tell _me_ he doesn't bloody care."

John stood as he saw Sherlock coming towards them. "Come on, John," Sherlock said, his tone and expression indifferent, giving no indication that he'd heard the conversation. But there was a slight flush in his cheeks and a bit of a quirk at the corner of his mouth that only someone who knew Sherlock extremely well would be able to see.

* * *

**Degree 4: A Couple**

_(Webster's Dictionary defines a couple as "two persons married, engaged, or otherwise romantically paired." Lestrade has a habit of joking about their relationship, using the old cliché that Sherlock and John act like an old married couple. The similarities are there, however, they've never used the actual label of "couple" to describe their relationship. Indeed, John has, on numerous occasions, denied vehemently any queries as to him being romantically entangled with Sherlock. Despite this, the question remains: is John in denial, or are they truly nothing more than friends?)_

As soon as John and Sherlock stepped out of the taxi, the entire police force knew they'd had a row. It was obvious, with the way that John held his shoulders stiffly, his mouth set in a grim line, and with Sherlock's blatant attempts to ignore the man walking next to him, leaving an unusual amount of space between the two of them. Nonetheless, they came when called and tried to act as professionally on arrival as they could under the strained circumstances.

"What have we got?" Sherlock asked as he approached Lestrade, who was crouching over a young woman.

He stood, grimacing at his sore muscles, and turned to them. His eyebrows rose minutely as he took in the obvious tense atmosphere. He looked as if he wanted to remark on it, but seemed to think better of it, nodding slightly. "Right, well, 19 year old female. Jessica Lampley. No purse with her, no phone."

Sherlock waited, then snapped, "That's it?" Lestrade nodded and Sherlock sighed despairingly, rolling his eyes.

"_Sherlock_," John warned him.

"Of course, John," Sherlock said mockingly. "_Mind my manners_."

He leaned down over Jessica, his eyes flicking over her body. "University student." His hand flitted into her jacket pocket, pulling out a few index cards and flipping through them quickly. "Pre-med. Recently broke up with her boyfriend." He frowned as he crouched down, leaning closer. "Ah," he said, his expression clearing. "Make that, _he_ broke up with _her_. She's a prostitute."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. "A _what_?"

"Probably been doing it to save up for medical school."

"_How_ –"

Sherlock pulled the back of her jacket down. "Small scrapes on her back. And her hands and knees. She does her business in back alleys like this one," Sherlock said, looking around. "Obviously her customers don't think she's worth much."

"_Sherlock_!" John snapped.

"Yes, John, something to add?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. "No? Well, good. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself thinking."

John growled, "Maybe you should be a little more sensitive about –"

"Oh, please, she's dead. What does it matter?"

"Exactly! Don't you think it's a little callous –"

Sherlock stood, pulling off his rubber gloves. "Tiptoeing around what she was and how it got her killed won't help find her murderer, will it?" John's lips thinned. "So, why don't you do something that _will_, and start examining her?"

For a moment, it looked as if John was going to leave. He rocked on his heels, his hands clenched into fists, and stared Sherlock down. But his eyes turned to the poor woman lying dead at their feet, and he relented. He crouched down, his trained eyes taking in any anomalies. He gently turned her head and he immediately caught sight of the bruising around her neck.

"She was strangled," he said, his voice taking on the distance of a trained medical professional. "But that wasn't cause of death. . . . The discoloration isn't right. She was . . . injected with something." His fingers ran over a small puncture mark nearly hidden by the bruising on her neck. "You'll need to get blood work to find out what it was exactly. I can't tell."

John stood, wiping the front of his jeans off. "Right. If that's all you need, I'll just be waiting by the tape line." He purposefully ignored Sherlock as he brushed past him, his chin up, eyes facing straight forward militarily.

He kept walking as he heard the sounds of a brief argument behind him, ending with Sherlock barking, "Fine!" Steps pounded behind him, catching up quickly.

"John. . . ." Sherlock started hesitantly, falling into step beside him. John ignored him. "You're angry."

John couldn't stop the disbelieving snort that erupted from him at that. "Really? What makes you think that?"

"Back there. . . . You're right. It was callous of me."

"Shouldn't have expected anything different out of you."

"John, just. . . ." Sherlock grabbed John's arm, pulling him to a stop and whirling him around. "_Wait_."

John pulled his arm back and swung his fist at Sherlock's face, but Sherlock was ready for it. He caught hold of John's other forearm, tightened his hold around both, and pulled John close so their faces were only inches apart.

John glanced around, suddenly keenly aware of how many eyes were on the two of them at that moment. "_Sherlock_," he said through gritted teeth. "People are going to talk."

"That's what people _do_," Sherlock said unthinkingly, and the moment he did, his face closed up. He dropped John's arms as if they were burning his hands, his shoulders stiffening. He bowed his head.

"Sherlock. . . ." John knew the parallels that existed between Sherlock and Morairty. He knew Sherlock saw them, too, better than he ever could. And he knew how much Sherlock _hated_ them. So now, to have echoed Moriarty's exact words so carelessly, so thoughtlessly . . . it was repugnant to Sherlock.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, lifting his head, but his eyes showed that he was anything but. John raised his hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm _fine_," Sherlock insisted, but he was giving John _that look_. That look that said something along the lines of "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to request a hug, please." Hopeful, but not expectant.

John smiled slightly and slipped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. "You're not him," he murmured, his lips brushing close to Sherlock's ear, not caring what they must look like to the officers pretending not to watch. "You're nothing like him."

Sherlock sighed, his breath rattling slightly, like a child holding in a sob, and his arms wound around John's waist. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "About what I said." He breathed deeply. "And . . . about earlier, too. At the flat."

John smiled. There would be time later for him to continue being mad at Sherlock, and plenty more opportunities in the future. But right now, Sherlock needed comfort, and that was more important than any stupid row they'd had. "It's all fine," he answered.

* * *

**Degree 5: Lovers**

_(And now, the pinnacle of the discussion: are John Watson and Sherlock Holmes lovers? This degree is tricky. The term "couple" certainly indicates some sort of sexual relationship between the two members, but the connotation that the term "lover" brings about is certainly much more concerned with passion and steam than cuddling on the couch or going out to dinner together. And, it's true, two people may be a couple without ever embarking on any sexual endeavors. The case is not so with lovers. Indeed, a sexual relationship is necessary for two people to be considered as such. Unfortunately, the only two people who know for certain are the two people in question. Mrs. Hudson would certainly venture that they are and, her being the one closest to their living quarters, it would seem obvious that she should know. But she hears many strange noises that drift down from the flat above her own, and it would be impossible to say what, exactly, some of them are, given Sherlock's odd ability to attract violent enemies to his own home. It is, therefore, impossible for her to say for sure without somehow walking in on the two of them together.)_

Lestrade pressed his finger heavily on the doorbell for 221B, furiously calling Sherlock's mobile at the same time. With no answer – from either attempt to reach the detective – he groaned in frustration and, not knowing what else to do – this _was_ an emergency, after all – rang the bell for their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Only moments later, the door was open by said landlady, looking extremely harried.

"Oh, Detective Inspector, please do come in," she said, her expression brightening some at his appearance. "Have you been trying to ring the boys long? They're doorbell isn't working again. Such shoddy work the last time it was fixed." She pushed him towards the stairwell, not allowing him to get in any words edgewise. "There, now, you head on up, and I'll bring you all a nice cuppa. Lovely." And with that, she had disappeared down the hall to her own flat.

Lestrade shook his head and trudged up the stairs. Oddly enough, the door was shut – he knew Sherlock had a nasty habit of leaving it open, and John had gotten beyond caring by now. As he reached for the door handle, he heard the characteristic sounds of positions being shifted in a rather large hurry. He pushed open the door slowly, suddenly wary of what he might find on the other side.

At first glance, it was not as shocking as he might have thought. John was in his chair, a book open in his hands. Sherlock lounged across the couch, glancing up at Lestrade's arrival.

"Are you actually shutting your door now?" Lestrade couldn't help asking.

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, ones that Lestrade couldn't decipher, but which made him take another look at the pair of them. John's book was on the habits of bees; not the typical reading choice of the doctor, but one he knew Sherlock was inexplicably interested in. His ears were tinged with red at the tips, as well, Lestrade noted. Sherlock's shirt had come slightly untucked on one side, pulling up to expose a sliver of his alabaster skin and his hair was tousled beyond reason.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound demanding but coming off as slightly nervous.

"Bad time?" Lestrade asked, not sure whether he should be feeling amused or completely uncomfortable.

Sherlock glanced at John, who was smirking slightly and had put down his book. Sherlock's normally pale cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red and he glanced down to his disheveled clothes, trying to fix them. "I'm not sure what you're insinuating," Sherlock said, his voice taking on a high-and-mighty tone. "I was asleep."

"_Right_," Lestrade said, deciding on uncomfortable. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Look, I can come back later if you still want to . . . _sleep_." He looked at John, whose cheeks flushed, but who, despite himself, seemed utterly amused by the entire situation. "Or, you know, I'm sure we can handle this one ourselves. I'll just get back to the station and . . . call before I come next time," he said backing away to the door.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped, pushing himself to a sitting position. "Just tell us what you came here to tell us."

Lestrade glanced to John uncertainly, who simply raised his eyebrows, that same amused look still tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, well. . . ." He huffed, suddenly itching to get out of this room and away from the electricity shooting between the two residents. "Honestly, it'll just be easier if you come and see for yourself. It's a weird one."

"Thank God," Sherlock muttered, and he was on his feet in seconds, pulling on his characteristically long coat. "Text the address and we'll be right behind you."

Lestrade nodded and quickly retreated, making sure to shut the door behind him. He pulled out his phone and texted the address quickly, stomping down the stairs as fast as he could. He didn't miss, however, the laughter that was echoing down the stairs as John gave in to his delight over his normally-so-stoic flatmate's embarrassment, nor the obviously scathing rebuttal of said flatmate.

* * *

As we look back on these various degrees, we can be certain that, at the very least, Sherlock and John are flatmates and colleagues (despite Sally Donavon's argument against the latter). We can also safely assume that, although Sherlock does seem to take advantage of John, they are friends as well. And it is evident in the way that they act that each of them cares for the other. The question, now, lies in just how _much_ they care for each other.

We cannot say for certain that there is a sexual relationship between the two of them, though there is much evidence for it. However, without concrete proof, there is simply no way we can determine if the two of them are lovers, or even a couple. The author certainly has her own opinion, though to prevent any bias from influencing this discussion, will remain silent on the matter. In the end, it is for each of us to weigh the evidence both for and against Sherlock and John's relationship being beyond that of simple friendship and come up with our own answers.

Unfortunately, as we cannot possibly see or know what goes on behind the closed doors of 221B Baker Street, it is likely we will never know for certain.


End file.
